


Unfinished Business

by pushingcrazies



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-29
Updated: 2007-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twopart, postAWE Sparrington fixit fic about explains it all. First part PoV is Jack, second is James.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jack

Upon reflection, Jack realized he could not quite be sure how they had gotten into this situation – he recalled some vague argument about how scrubbing the deck was a waste of Norrington's sailing skills. _He_ was captain of this ship, goddamnit, and if he wanted Norrington to swab the bloody deck, well then Norrington better damn well do as he was told. And if Jack thought even harder (which was cursedly hard to do at the moment) he could remember that it had been his idea to move the argument into his cabin, away from the prying eyes of the crew, lest they get any foolish notions in their heads. But that still didn't explain how _that_ had turned into _this_.

Before he could dwell on the matter any further, Norrington's hands moved to a better position, effectively destroying Jack's ability to concentrate.

_Ah, right. Sailing skills._

He could not stop the moan that bubbled up from deep within him as the former Commodore's head bobbed back and forth, back and forth, driving him toward completion before backing away again, refusing to let him find his relief. It was nigh on torturous, the things this man was doing to him, but it was, at the same time, so very _ohgodyesrightthere_ that Jack found himself torn between frustration and sheer ecstasy. And he knew Norrington (oh yes indeed he did) – knew that he could keep at this all night, if he so chose to. Another cry ripped through him, and he looked down to find those green eyes gazing at him – hauntinghuntingwatching him, almost accusing in their intensity. The rest of his features seemed unimportant in comparison, and Jack found himself focusing solely on them.

But all at once those eyes were slipping away from, gliding backwards into the darkness. Jack whimpered a protest and made a grab for him, but was evaded easily. Laughter – oh, he knew that laughter alright – bubbled from the deep shadows to his left, but he ignored it to make one last snatch at the man attached to those damned (damning) eyes. With a blink, Norrington disappeared altogether, and Jack was annoyed to hear the obnoxious laughter build in volume and intensity, now accompanied by a shrill chitteringscreeching sound. Just this side of angry, the pirate whirled to face the bodiless voices, only to realize he wasn't entirely sure where they were coming from. They seemed to completely envelop him in the darkness (since when were there ever so many shadows in his cabin), pressing on him, suffocating him. He spun again, searching for that grizzled old face to punch, that tiny body to shoot, but the sudden reappearance of those eyes made him freeze. Those eyes spoke two words to him before vanishing for good, along with the laughterchatter. Jack opened his eyes.

 _Unfinished business_.

The words still echoing in his head, Jack sat up in his small dinghy, surveying his surroundings – water and a lot of it. "Change of plan, mates," he informs himself. "We're to the Locker, t'see how dear Jamie's fairing. If all goes well, we'll 'ave ourselves a guest aboard." Glancing down, he sighed and arranged himself to better take care of his… 'unfinished business.'


	2. James

As far as he can figure, he is in a universe of infinites. He started out in an ocean that stretched on as far as he can see, and for a brief moment he thinks maybe his life has been spared and he was simply tossed off the ship – but the _Flying Dutchman_ is nowhere to be seen. He begins to swim in a random direction, hoping vainly there will be _something_ nearby, but there is not. For hours and hours, possibly days, until his legs begin to cramp, and before he knows it he is falling, falling into blackness.

And the blackness, too, seems to go on forever, and he thinks maybe this isn't so bad, just floatingfalling freely into nothingness – but no. After hour-long minutes he begins to hear the voices – the voices that laugh and snicker and whisper. In spite of himself, he strains to listen, to catch the fleeting words, but he only hears bits and pieces: "…disgrace…" "…backstabber…" "…worthless…" and he is surprised to realize he knows these bodiless voices as Port Royal's finest. The words repeat over and over again, a chorus of harsh accusations, until he feels he might go mad with despair.

Eventually the voices cease, much to his relief, but he feels a sort of dread as to what might possibly come next. He wonders now if he has been sent to hell and Dante got it wrong after all, for there is no violent storm or flaming tombs, though perhaps this may be Limbo (it had been hard for him to accept the Bible's teachings after his dealings with undead pirates and whatnot). He is no longer floating through the abyss; strangely there seems to be solid ground under his feet once more. He cringes in anticipation what is next.

Tiny pinpricks of light flicker on around him, enveloping him, and it takes him a moment to realize they are stars. What purpose they serve he cannot fathom, though he is abruptly struck by an old rhyme his mother used to tell him when he was but a child, something about the first starlight of the night and a wish granted. As he gazes around him in wonder at the sheer number (something he had not contemplated for years now) of glowing dots, some flare brighter before fading into blackness once more, while others are born right before his eyes.

He contemplates the birth and death of these celestial bodies for a long while, though by now the length of time he spends in one place is beginning to seem immaterial. Gradually he becomes aware that the ground beneath his feet is getting softer and he is sinking into it. Suddenly the stars around him all disappear into the blackness, like so many lamps being doused at once. Yet he can see the brown mess at his feet – mud that he is indeed sinking into. He lifts one foot, then the other, walking, trying to find firmer ground once more.

He walks again for an eternity, or what very nearly seems like one, but now he is getting used to this. As he walks, he thinks, reminisces, ponders, bemoans, laments, regrets, recollects, and broods. All the what ifs and maybes flow in and out of his head, as he alternates between sadness and a sense of inevitability. And he wonders if this is why he is in this place of indefiniteness, that he may reflect upon his life and come to a conclusion – the question is: which conclusion. Is he to forgive himself his actions or to admit his mistakes?

Without warning, though he is still moving, he is no longer going forward (or what passes for forward in this strange place) – the mud has become something stronger, thicker, which pulls him down at an agonizingly slow rate. He struggles, thinking he might free himself, but he quickly realizes the more he moves, the more he is dragged down. He weighs his choices: resist harder and get through it faster, or relax and pass through slowly, saving his energy. Then again, he was never really one to take anything lying down, and it is better to go down fighting – literally.

Despite his movements, it still takes awhile for him to get through the endless sea of sand that presses in on him, yet does not crush him. It occurs to him that with all his exercise, he should be feeling some sort of soreness or fatigue, but this is the afterlife. He is starting to get used to that idea, that he is dead, that he is no longer mortal. This he ponders as he travels ever downwards, this concept of being _dead_. He rolls the thought around in his head, deciding it's not so bad, if a bit lonely.

Finally he makes it through to find himself in a different sort of sea of sand – this time a desert, complete with rolling sand dunes, a merciless sun, and utter nothingness. Well, what else should he have expected? Grumbling something about the unoriginality of whatever god(s) created this hell, he starts forward once more, picking a direction at random. He is beginning to feel a sort of weariness that comes from his very bones, as though his body no longer has the will to continue, no matter what his mind may feel. He takes not a hundred steps before collapsing.

Somewhere he finds the strength to roll over, and this time he finds himself staring into a bottomless pool of chocolate, and hazily he thinks maybe this isn't so bad. He smiles, reaches out to touch the chocolate, and is shocked when it pulls away. And he realizes it is not chocolate, but a brown eye, outlined in black, one he knows too well. Before he can say anything, a warm hand pulls him up, a familiar voice chatters on about finally finding him and how he has come to rescue him. And he knows – he is finally heading somewhere.


End file.
